


Nothing Like A Doll At All

by apeirophobia



Category: Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Vengeance, Spartacus: War of the Damned
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2014-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 19:09:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 15,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apeirophobia/pseuds/apeirophobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Caesar is an eighteen-year-old monster who thinks he owns his boyfriend, Sparty is a fifth-year senior who's building an army, and Nasir just wants to live up to his name (and kiss Agron).</p><p>Written for the Annual Spartacus Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's not a clique, it's a goddamn rebellion

**Author's Note:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

His name is Gaius Julius Caesar and everybody knows who he is. His parents are old money and he’s got that entitled swagger to him, that “I’m smart and athletic  _and_ rich, but even if I weren’t I’d still be better than  _you_ ” air to him to makes people turn their eyes from him in the hallway, rather than meet his gaze. He’s Varsity soccer captain and Prom King and one day he may well rule the world, not many people would bet against him. He might be in high school currently, but he’s real world dangerous, he just puts off that vibe. Nasir knows this, just like anybody in this school, nay, anybody in this  _town_ knows this, but he, very bravely and very stupidly, does not give a fuck. 

 

Nasir is seventeen, a sophomore (due to an epic fail in third grade, otherwise known as learning English at age eight, and, fuck the gods, there are not words, in any language, for how much he is  _never doing that again_ , bi-lingual advantage be  _damned_ ) and a writer for the school’s newspaper under the tutelage of student editor Spartacus. Spartacus takes everything school-related far too seriously, might secretly be a fifth-year senior, and is rumored to have killed a guy last summer (if anybody asks, Gnaeus transferred schools). When it comes to what others think of him, however, he too is in the business of not giving a fuck. There is a small but significant “crew” throughout the school that is loyal (or as deathly loyal as fickle teenagers  _can_ be) to Spartacus. Spartacus has a way of collecting people through odd circumstances and sheer will, and his posse, “the brotherhood”, (as it’s known in many circles, and boy, do Mira and Aurelia have some choice words about  _that_ ) is made up of all kinds of odd types. There are jocks, cheerleaders, and student council members in its ranks, even the odd juvenile delinquent (Rhaskos maintains that he didn’t know it was private property, but he still won’t give up where he got the goat, Spartacus just asked him to reign it in a little next time, as he really can’t be bailing people out of jail on school nights). The first week of classes, two years ago, he adopted Nasir as his pseudo little brother and pretty much hasn’t let him out of his sight since.

 

There is a boy Nasir’s age who’s tall (taller than Nasir at least, but then, who isn’t) and a little too thin and has eyes so green they’re almost unreal. Spartacus would describe him as gangly, Nasir would describe him as  _beautiful_ , but Caesar would describe him as  _mine_ (and that’s what’s important, and terrible). The boy’s name is Agron, and Nasir’s pretty much been in love with him since the first time he saw him across the locker bay. He finds this fact a little too far on the obsessive side of pathetic, so he spends the first three months of his “crush” trying to deny it’s existence (so naturally, the entire newspaper staff knows). They don’t have any classes together (Agron mostly has class with proper juniors, with the exception of a mixed class elective, not that Nasir’s learned his schedule, or anything) but sometimes he’ll catch the other boy in the hall, or share a class session in the library, or see him after school in the student parking lot. In these times Nasir just stares a lot, and if he’s feeling brave says ‘hello’ or ‘good morning’, (but never ‘how are you?’ or anything of the sort, because things that could lead to conversation risk leading to Nasir saying things like ‘I love you’ and ‘I’d like to take you home and keep you forever’ or even just ‘I’d really like to kiss you on the mouth’, cause Nasir can be awkward like that) and if he’s lucky, he’s rewarded with the most dazzling smile known to man. Agron has dimples, and big white teeth that are just crooked enough to be unfairly charming, and when he smiles his eyes light up like Nasir did something grand, like he made his day better, by passing him in the hall and saying ‘good morning’. It almost makes the total agony of being in love worthwhile.


	2. there be ghosts here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

The reality is: Agron belongs to the richest, most popular, and most powerful boy in school. Everybody knows they’ve been dating for seven months (which is pretty serious when you’re newly seventeen and eighteen and a half, respectively). Everybody knows that Agron transferred in eight months ago (but nobody knows from where, though there are a plethora of wild and crazy rumours on the subject). Everybody knows that Gaius Julius Caesar, excessively charismatic asshole that he is, is actually a surprisingly good boyfriend. He goes to every one of Agron’s tennis matches, he drops by the junior corridor in the mornings to give Agron an adorably chaste kiss on the cheek before he goes to class, and when Agron badly sprained his wrist last month, Caesar carried his books for him to every class, like something out of a 50’s movie. The reality is: nobody knows that Gaius Julius Caesar is the reason Agron’s wrist was sprained in the first place, and that he did it out of anger over something so insignificant he can’t even remember what it was.

In the beginning, when Agron first met Julius, he honestly liked him. He thought he was amusing in a too-cocky-to-be-real kind of way, and his smile seemed warm. The first time they met Agron was bagging groceries and Julius came through his line. He had a huge bottle of Bacardi, a box of condoms, and a package of liquid food dye, and Agron just didn’t want to know. He fought to keep a straight face, but was utterly losing the battle as he handed the bag to the older boy. Julius took out his wallet and grinned wide, his teeth looked sharp and almost menacing, but his tone was friendly when he said, “I was trying to make you laugh,” and shrugged his shoulders genially when Agron did just that. He came back a couple of times after that, pulling similar stunts and flashing mad amounts of cash, and generally trying to get Agron to leave with him after his shift. Agron said no at first, because he was new in town and completely on his own, and Julius with the blonde hair and the shark-like smile could be a serial killer for all he knew, amusing shenanigans not withstanding. After-all, who considered condoms and Bacardi and food dye proper enticement for a friendship, or whatever exactly, that Julius wanted out of him? And it was certainly _more_ than friendship that Julius had on his mind, if lingering stares and risque insinuations were anything to go by. 

 

Eventually he says yes, because more than suspicious or hesitant, he’s incredibly lonely. There’s a desperation in him for love, affection, attention, _anything_ and when Julius covers his hand with his own something in the back of his mind whispers ‘ _maybe_ ’. Maybe something good could happen for him, _to him_ , for a change. He’s never been _wanted_ before, and he finds it an addictive and terrifying feeling. He’s sixteen and he’s utterly alone in the world, save for his brother’s ghost. Perhaps the saddest thing is that it gives him more comfort than most of the living people in his life have. He lives by himself in a tiny apartment subsidized by the state because the foster system pretty much gave up on him. Before this, “life” was just a string of home placements so awful he can barely believe they were real, would not believe they were real had he not lived, and barely survived, them. He’s finally free, in a sense, and then again, not really free at all. He might have his life, but he also has his memories, and they make saying no to such enthusiastic persistence nearly impossible. So he doesn’t. And when Julius smiles and offers him a ride home he gets in the car.


	3. when the sun goes down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

Monday morning is hell, it’s a universal truth. But this particular Monday marks the start of Spirit Week (which this school, in Nasir’s humble but sane opinion, takes a _tad_ too seriously) so really, Nasir should be hella forgiven for the mini-meltdown he’s currently having into Spartacus’ shoulder, as the senior checks over sources on his latest article. Chadara is going through an ice-cream-and-sweat-pants stage over a boy, requiring many a best friend text from Nasir, and he’s so so tired, emotionally and physically. Mira is far too cheerful for this hour of the morning as she passes out freshly printed copies of the newspaper (“oooh, they’re still warm!” says Pietros, appreciatively, and holds it up against his cheek, giving Nasir a sleepy look) while dressed as a geisha. Nasir’s not sure what the theme is supposed to be today because the portion of the football team that has taken up residence in the writer’s lounge (a _loud_ portion, he would add, but then again, Nasir isn’t sure there are any quiet ones, except for maybe Barca) seem to all be dressed as power rangers (Crixus, in particular, makes for a very grumpy-looking Red Ranger). As for Nasir himself, well, he’s barely in dress code. His school issue white button-down is mostly open, showing the ‘blue sun’ t-shirt beneath it (that he’s not supposed to be wearing) and his khakis are nearly worn through at the knees. His long hair is pulled up in a messy bun atop his head and Mira says he’s the perfect image of nonchalance in the workplace. But she says it kindly, running her fingers over his messy locks as she walks past, so he takes no offense. It’s mostly true, he probably doesn’t care as much as he should. He puts solid work into the newspaper (The Capua Chronicle, as it’s called) and does his homework (most of the time) but his thoughts are all Agron. Agron, who he actually had a legitimate conversation with last week. Nasir is currently very proud of himself.

 

“There’s a pirate here to see you,” Mira says, shaking him from his thoughts. He looks up to see Agron standing in the doorway, looking a little lost, and smiling. It’s not his beaming, returning-sun-to-the-Earth-after-forty-days-of-rain smile, but it’s enough to make Nasir almost fall out of his chair. Mira laughs at his ineptness, but she catches his coffee cup before it can spill over a stack of drafts, so he’ll let her live.

 

“I’m not a pirate,” Agron says, and Nasir looks his outfit over. It’s a bit more steam punkish than sea farer, but he doesn’t recognize it. He thought today’s theme was supposed to be Future Career. Did the entire football team really want to be Power Rangers? Did Agron want to be a space pirate when he grew up? ...cause Nasir would be more than okay with that. 

 

“What exactly _are_ you then, if I may ask?” Nasir smiles up at him and thinks _Heh, gorgeous. tall. hopefully single soon._

 

“I’m Nick Fury,” Agron explains, motioning to the eyepatch that incorrectly got him dubbed a pirate, “You know, the old-school one, who was just crazy and smoked all the cigars.”

 

Nasir makes a face that he hopes clearly expresses “I have no idea what you are talking about but if you’d like to continue talking to me about topics that interest you and make no sense to me I’d be totally cool with that.” and says tentatively “Is that a comic book...thing?,” He’s starting to suspect today is not Career Day.

 

Agron laughs, so Nasir decides to count his having absolutely no idea who Nick Fury is as a win instead of a loss, “Yeah, he’s like an army hero who goes on to run teams of super heroes. Always saving the world, he’s great.”

 

Nasir nods like that makes perfect sense and then remembers that Agron is standing in the writer’s lounge which, if he recalls correctly, is nowhere near where Agron should be during third period, so he asks, “What can I do for you? Unless, of course, you’ve seen the light and have decided throw History of the Church overboard for the literature experience that is writing for “The Capua Chronicle”?” and he does the quotation marks out of mockery. Because really, he loved what he did and what his friends were part of, but there was rarely an edition of the paper that made it to the printer without a purposely (and hilariously) misspelled word or a penis drawing snuck into the background of someone’s editorial.

 

Agron laughs again, this time more heartfelt, until he grabs his side as if in pain. A look of discomfort flickers across his face for a moment, and then it’s gone, and when he straightens up it’s as if it were never there. “As lovely as that sounds, unfortunately no to the latter. I’m just dropping off some photos for the spring sports section.” Agron hands him a manilla envelope with ‘TENNIS 2013’ written across it in sharpie. Nasir absolutely _does not_ fist-pump at the awesomeness that is being handed an envelope that most definitely contains pictures of Agron playing tennis. In shorts. Tennis-shorts. _Agron_ in shorts. Nasir thinks the next thing that shorts might be his brain. He takes the envelope like the _very_ mature and respectful person that he can pretend to be (sometimes) and makes two mental notes. One, that he pass the photos on to Spartacus, and two, that he be present when they are looked over. He’s looks up and notices that Agron is kind of swaying where he stands, and he looks a little _off_ , even taking into account the awful florescent lighting.

 

“Are you alright?” Nasir asks, cocking his head to the side and giving Agron a non-lusty once over. Everything seems to be in place, but the other boy looks pale, or paler than normal. Nasir’s at least eighty percent Syrian, all his friends look pale to him. Except for maybe Barca. But he’s not sure he considers Barca a friend. It’s really a toss-up between surly-friend-he’s-kind-of-scared-of and boyfriend-of-friend-he-tolerates-pretty-well. But he digresses from the subject at hand.

 

“I’m fine!” Agron assures, like Nasir accused him of doing something wrong and he’s maintaining his innocence. Nasir raises an eyebrow of incredulity.

 

“I’m just...a little dizzy, I guess.” Agron says, but it comes out uncertain, almost questioning. He braces his hand on desk in front of him and shifts his weight forward to catch his breath, and Nasir stares. A moment passes before some of his color returns.

 

“Hmm...well, I should be getting back,” Agron says with a tilt of his head, indicating towards the door. Nasir nods, but he knows he still looks concerned. His lips lift into what is probably the most uncertain smile ever when Agron gives him a little wave before leaving. He can’t seem to shake what he saw when Agron leaned on the desk to catch his breath. Because when he put his hands on the desk, Nasir’s desk, his shirt cuff rode up, exposing his forearm. And underneath, where his pale skin should be pink and clear, was a huge and painful looking dark purple bruise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated! Gratitude! :]


	4. my love has concrete feet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.
> 
> extra warning: this chapter is a bit dark

On Saturday Agron has tennis practice, just like always. It’s one of his favorite parts of the week, though stopping by the writer’s lounge and visiting Nasir and his strange friends is quickly rising in popularity. There’s just something about them and their warm bond that he envies. The only one that he knows with any level of familiarity, besides Nasir, is Peitros. Pietros is on the school tennis team as well, and they’re often paired up in practice due to being a match in height and handedness. Today finds them paired once more, and after warm-ups and drills, volleying back and forth. They are somewhat working on form, but mostly they’re just trying to outdo the other, forcing each other to run and dodge so as to not forfeit the point. A failure to anticipate correctly could result in a tennis ball to the temple, or a spill on the asphalt. They  _could_  be taking this more seriously, like Seppius and Illythia, the stone-faced seniors on the next court, but coach Auctus is away for the week and they can afford to goof off a little. Their damn coach ditched out on a week of practices afterall, for a freakin’ bird-watching seminar in another state, and left them in the highly incompetent hands of Professor Batiatus in his absence. Professor Batiatus is, well, not a tennis coach for starters. He’s a likable, but often crude, history teacher and most of the students call him “Batty Batiatus” behind his back. He looks on, overwhelmed, as tennis ball fly back and forth and the team’s players dance with each other, each court’s pair in its own little world.

The game stops when Agron forehands fast, aiming for Pietros’ chest in the hope that he can’t block in time, and Pietros catches the ball between his racket and his left hand, affectively ending the match, and conceding the point to Agron.

 

“Whoa, that was some ninja shit right there!” Agron says excitedly, almost as impressed by Pietros’ x-men skills as he is by the fact that he won the round.

 

Pietros drops the ball and shakes out his left hand, groaning “Ow, that hurt like a bitch,” but he’s smiling so Agron doesn’t think he’s seriously hurt.

 

“Victory is yours, you sneaky German,” Pietros says with a laugh and Agron throws his arms in the air, accepting his accolades.

The ringing of Pietros’ phone interrupts their recess. He motions at Agron that he’ll be right back, and goes to answer the call. Agron cracks his knuckles and stretches out his wrists. His arms ache, but it’s a good exercise kind of ache, and he’s just glad to have his brace off. Having a sprained wrist was torture, and the pain barely measured up to the disappointment in Auctus’ eyes, and how it stung when he made Agron sit out at practice.

“Oh, okay, awesome,” Pietros says, nodding at whoever’s on the other side of the conversation, and looks up.

 

“You like snow cones?” he asks, squinting into the sun to able to see Agron on the other side of the net.

 

“What?” Agron asks, surprised at the sudden query.

 

“Do. You. Like. Snow. Cones.” Pietros repeats slowly like Agron is hard of hearing, but in good humour. 

 

Agron shrugs, “I don’t know, I’ve never had one before”

 

Pietros mouth hangs open in a mixture of shock and disgust. “Yeah. Yes, sure. Love you too,” he speaks into the cell, and then hangs up.

 

“Alright you dexterous offense to nature,” Pietros says, gesturing to Agron as he walks over to the bench to collect his bag, “You’re coming with me.”

So, snow cones. Are. Fucking.  _Awesome_. Agron thinks, later, when his mouth is full of cherry goodness. A fair amount of syrup ends up on his face and his lips feel a bit numb, but he doesn’t care. Him and Pietros are sitting at a picnic table with Pietros’ boyfriend Barca, who Agron’s seen around before but never really talked to. In truth, the older boy intimidates Agron, with his permanent scowl and skyscraper height. Now, telling a story and laughing about some stupid shit that his best friend Crixus apparently did at practice the other day, he looks a lot less severe. The rainbow snow cone he’s shoveling into his mouth might have something to do with his present lack of threatening nature.

 

“I just don’t get how you’ve never had a snow cone before. It’s, like, mind-blowing. You’re almost my age! That’s over a decade and a half of no snow cones!”

 

Agron doesn’t tell him that where he grew up food was scarce, let alone  _treats_. And he doesn’t tell him that a lot of the time he, and his little brother Duro, went hungry not from necessity but through sheer neglect. He knows there are topics for discussion in pleasant company and his past probably isn’t one of them.

 

“Pietros.” Barca says, he raising an eyebrow at Agron’s quietness, but choosing not to mention it. “Maybe everyone doesn’t share in having a sweet tooth the size of Dean Crassus’ ego.”

 

Agron snorts, despite himself, and feels shaved ice go up his nose.

When Pietros and Barca drop him off at his apartment, an hour or so later, Agron checks his phone and sees that he missed three messages from Caesar. His stomach lurches, he’s smart enough to know there will be consequences to what his boyfriend will undoubtedly perceive as a slight on Agron’s part. If he still had a sense of self-preservation there would probably be a little voice in the back of his mind whispering  _run_  right about now. But he hasn’t had a functioning sense of self-preservation since his beloved brother made the choice to throw himself between Agron and the world that sought to harm them. And the sun felt so warm, and laughing and hanging out with Pietros and Barca felt so  _nice_ , that he can’t really find it in himself to regret this particular “fuck up”, especially since Caesar will, one way or another,  _make_ him regret it later.

 

Agron sighs, alone in his kitchen, and leans against the counter, trying to stretch his muscles out. His back pops and breathing becomes a little easier. He overdid it in practice today, he knows this. He still has several bruised ribs that are taking a fuck-long time to heal (google search was not very helpful, apparently “can someone break your ribs with the car door?” doesn’t return any results), and the compensation he’s forced to employ during the day is taking its toll on his whole system. He’s tired, but more than tired. He’s exhausted down to his bones in a way that shouldn’t be possible at seventeen. So, instead of calling his boyfriend and attempting damage control, he turns his phone off and leaves it on the counter when he makes for his bedroom. He kicks off his sneakers and pulls on a pair of sweatpants before crawling into bed. He considers taking some pain killers or scrubbing his face to remove traces of the red stain the delicious snow cone seems to have left him with. He really should do both, but anything that’s between him and his pillow seems too much right now. Instead he pulls his pillow over his head, closes his eyes, and prays for dreams that are sweeter than his past or present.

 

Agron wakes up to Caesar kissing him  _hard_ like he’s not even there, like he’s just this pliant  _thing_ that happens be under him on his bed. Like he doesn’t have a name, or three bruised ribs, like he’s not his  _boyfriend_ of more than half a year. Agron pushes himself further up the bed to get away because pushing Caesar back isn’t an option without inviting searing pain to erupt in his chest cavity. Caesar just follows him and settles his weight on Agron’s lower half and puts one arm on either side of Agron’s head, making him feel trapped, staring down at him and letting him know that he’s not going anywhere. Agron stares back, searching Caesar’s face, looking for some sign of jest or compassion. He finds none. Caesar presses Agron down into the bed, grinds his hips against Agron’s, not trying to hide the fact that he’s enjoying this as much as Agron is not. Agron pushes against his shoulders and makes to sit up, he doesn’t care if the pain feels like it’s killing him at the moment, he is not going to just sit here and  _let_ Caesar have sex with him. This  _thing_ he does, this punishment, where he acts like Agron isn’t a person and just takes what he wants, just does things  _to_ Agron, this, he decides, is the worst part. Worse than the hitting, the pushing, the general possessiveness, because at least when he’s physically hurting him he has to  _see_ him. He know he exists because he’s the recipient of Caesar’s fury. He takes a deep breath and tries to roll over when Caesar stops him. He has both of Agron’s hands in his own, fingers wrapped a little tight around his wrists, and holds his hands between their chests. 

 

“You know, you look amazing when you play. Even when you lose, the referees comment on your form. I love going to your matches, love seeing you excel at something you’re so good at.” He squeezes his fingers tighter around Agron’s wrists and pulls them up a little, forcing Agron to arch his back to compensate. Breath rushes out of Agron’s lungs and his ribs ache violently, but Caesar isn’t nearly finished.

 

“I know you’re hoping for a scholarship next year,” he says, and squeezes tighter, and pulls Agron’s wrist backward at an odd angle. There are tears in Agron’s eyes, not from pain alone, but also fear, Caesar literally holds his life and his future in his hands. He releases his wrists suddenly and they fall softly to the comforter as Agron’s back can once more straighten out and he tries to catch his breath. Before he can Caesar is pressed close, chest to chest, and he nuzzles his face into the side of Agron’s face in a parody of intimacy. He slides his hands down Agron's arms before interlacing their fingers and pressing their joined hands into the bedding. It's a warning, always a warning, nothing is ever a gesture of pure affection anymore.

Face close to his ear, Caesar says, “The things I could do to you,” he rolls his hips again and presses closer still, pushes their intwined hands more firmly into the bed,

“I could  _destroy_ you, do you understand?” Caesar is pressed so close there’s barely room for Agron to nod, but no response is necessary. Caesar sits up suddenly, releasing him. Agron's fingers tingle as the feeling comes back into them. Caesar slides his hands under Agron’s shirt and drags his fingers over hot bruised skin. Agron looks at the ceiling and tries to remember how to breathe.

He thinks,  _my future, my life, my self-worth_.  Thinks,  _what would be a small enough price to pay?_

Caesar pushes Agron’s shirt up and runs his teeth along the edge of Agron’s pants, dipping his tongue under the band of his underwear.

This time Agron doesn’t stop him.


	5. this is a warning shot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

When Spartacus looks over at Agron during Western Civilization the first thing that comes to mind is, _damn, the kid looks like hell_. His usually styled hair is all mused, like he’s been frantically running his hands through it, and his eyes are blood-shot. He’s hunched over in his seat, resting his forehead against his clenched fists. Spartacus has to fight the urge to check his pulse. The boy’s been on his radar ever since Nasir fell head-over-heels for him a couple of months back. But if this is how he randomly turns up to school, apparently he hasn’t been paying good enough attention. _Damnnit_ , Spartacus kicks himself mentally, clearly he missed something, again. He hates not staying on top of things, but his best friend Varro had just gotten serious (like _serious_ serious) with his new girlfriend and now they’re having a baby, and sometimes he just wished his friends would chill the fuck out for five minutes so he wouldn’t incessantly feel like he was playing catch-up. His group seemed constantly on the verge of going off the rails and for some reason he’s assumed responsibility for the crazy fucks.

 

He doesn’t really know Agron though, so he’s not sure why he feels guilty, looking at him across the room. Sure, the junior’s visited the writers' lounge a couple of times, mostly to to talk to Nasir or Pietros, and Spartacus has heard far too many details about how green his eyes are and how skilled a tennis player he is from _someone_ , but they haven’t directly interacted much. There are invisible battle lines drawn in this school: Spartacus stands on one side and Caesar, the other. And it’s generally understood that if you align yourself with one side then the other is simply off-limits.

 

But now Spartacus thinks that maybe he’s made a mistake, that he’s taken his ‘rebellion’ loyalties too seriously, by letting this kid’s situation, whatever it is, slip past his concern. Because from what Nasir’s told him, and from what he’s observed, the boy doesn’t have an ounce of malice in him. And Nasir cares about him, obviously. And Spartacus cares about Nasir. So it’s like the grandfather clause of giving a fuck. 

 

It still puzzles him as to what Agron’s doing with Caesar though, besides the obvious of course, the guy _is_ an infamous nymphomaniac. But he’s also an asshat, Spartacus thinks, and he can’t imagine what Caesar could do to convince someone to put up with him for three-quarters of a year. It still amazes Spartacus that Sura has put up with _him_ for the past two years, and yeah he was bad news when she first met him, but he was nowhere near Caesar’s level of rumored debauchery. Before he met Sura, he was a straight-up skank. Like, he fucked his way through summer camp, when he was a _camper_. And Spartacus knows he’s a walking stereotype of the kind of guy who’s gonna grow up to pray his daughters don’t date guys like himself, but he never wished anyone outright harm, even at his worst. If the rumours are to be believed, the same can’t be said about Gaius Julius Caesar.

 

Spartacus sighs and rubs his eyes. _Fuck_ , he thinks, looking Agron over again. Now that he’s actually _looking_ he sees. See the shaking hands, the way he’s tensed, as if in defense, and feels like an idiot. Spartacus thinks, _I hope this isn’t another Gnaus situation_. Thinks regretfully, _if it is, the world is awful and so am I_.

 

When Professor Oenomaus calls for everyone to sort into pairs, Spartacus seizes his chance. Agron startles and stares when Spartacus puts a hand on his shoulder. The boy looks very far away.

 

“You want to work together?” Spartacus asks, but he’s already sliding into the desk adjacent to Agron’s, and putting his stuff down.

 

“I don’t have the assignment,” Agron says as way of explanation, but takes Spartacus’ paper anyway.

 

Spartacus thinks, _no shit, you’re listing_ , _no wonder you’re not prepared for class_. 

 

“It’s no problem,” Spartacus says, “We can just act like we’re discussing the assignment. But instead an analyzing Hannibal’s motivations, how about you tell me who hurt you?”

 

Shock registers on Agron’s face, tempered with just a passing of fear, but his voice is flat when he replies “What.”, not even a question, just an instinctual response. He also has an instinct to reach for the left side of his ribcage, which does not go unnoticed by Spartacus. Either Agron is uncharacteristically off his game today or Spartacus is finally on his.

 

Spartacus thinks it may be a little of both, and he reiterates, “Somebody hurt you, you’re obviously in pain.” He says this firmly, leaving no room for argument before continuing,

 

“Now, my girlfriend’s a psychology major, so she’d probably say that statistically parents are the most likely candidates, but everyone knows that the police always look at the S.O. first, so...” Spartacus gestures in implication and Agron’s face pales. Well, he gets _paler_ , and Spartacus hopes the kid doesn’t pass out on him.

 

The voice in Spartacus’ mind that sounds suspiciously like Sura warns that this kid is in serious need of some ibuprofen and a lie-down. She also says that maybe he’s pushing a little too hard. Well, no one had ever accused Spartacus of not being bold enough.

 

“I don’t have parents,” Agron says, interrupting Spartacus’ internal chastisement, and he let’s out a breathe he didn’t know he was holding.

 

“Like, at all?” Spartacus asks before he can stop himself.

 

Agron gives him a pointed _look_ and says, dryly, “Yeah. I’m pretty sure, last time I checked.”

 

Spartacus leans forward, rejuvenated in his efforts. Sarcasm seemed a good indication that Agron could take a bit more questioning. “So, then...boyfriend?” He asks, and let’s Agron waffle.

 

“It’s complicated,” Agron says, and looks over Spartacus’ assignment, like he’s actually reading it.

 

“How so?,” Spartacus counters.

 

Agron sighs, “His parents love me,” and puts the paper down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. It seemed a ridiculous thing to care about when it came to cutting ties with Caesar, but it still hurt. Agron had a long history of adults hating him. Social workers used to despise him and his brother, because they refused to be separated. And then guardian after guardian passed them along, until it was finally just Agron, who they gave up on entirely. Being looked at like he wasn’t a colossal fuck-up was novel, but Caesar’s parents were outright _fond_ of him. They’d even said how _good_ he was for their son. It was a heady feeling, being adored. One that he would have to let go of.

 

Spartacus sits back, that was not the answer he was expecting. But then again, no part of this was expected. When he woke up this morning he did not plan on staging an intervention.

 

“And I just thought-- ugg, this is stupid” he says, before cutting off. Agron didn’t really want to be baring his soul to this guy he hardly knew. He’d gotten the impression, by proxy, that Spartacus was a good enough guy, but this was hella personal stuff and Agron’s head was still all messed up from what happened on Saturday.

 

“What is stupid, Agron?” Spartacus asks gently.

 

“I thought he’d be, like, _it_.” Agron says, not meeting Spartacus’ eye, and blushes.

 

“ _It,_ ” Spartacus repeats, “as in, “the one”?”  Agron turns those bright green blood-shot eyes on him, like he’s daring him to laugh, but Spartacus couldn’t be further from it. He just feels sad.

 

“He wanted to know everything about me. He wanted to _own_ me. I thought that was love.” Agron says, sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms, wincing a little at the movement. He knows he’s using past-tense, but he doesn’t know when he decided that it was all over. Maybe it was when he woke up Sunday morning and his heart was broken. Maybe it was when he turned on his phone to find seventy messages, half of them apologies, the other half self-righteous threats. He thinks it might have been when Caesar raped him in his own bed, purposely taking away any sense of security he felt in his own home, and effectively shattering any illusions he might have held about the older boy’s feelings. Agron might not know what “good” is, but he knows that this isn’t it.

 

Spartacus watches Agron go away again, and makes a decision. This stops _now_. He feels that he’s dropped the ball enough as it is. Pulling out his cell phone, he searches the schedules in his brain, trying to recall where Crixus is at the moment. Probably out on the sports’ fields, flipping over those big-ass tires with his teammates, bonding and building muscles. He’s pretty sure period two is just labeled “Manly Shit” in Crixus’ planner. If Crixus even has a planner. It’s not really his style.

 

“This stops now.” Spartacus says to Agron, nodding seriously, and the other boy looks at him like he forgot he was there. Or that he forgot he was even in class at all.

 

“Let me help you,” Spartacus implores, and he sees Agron consider his words before nodding his acceptance. It’s not a difficult decision to make. At this point he has very little to lose.

 

“Alright,” says Spartacus with the beginnings of a smile, he feels lighter than he did just minutes ago, and his mind is already racing with plans and strategy of exactly how they’re going to go about this.

 

“As soon as class ends, we’re out of here.” Spartacus says, eyeing Professor Oenomaus. He nudges his forgotten assignment, still on Agron’s desk, and says, “Just put your name on it, it’s not like Prof. Omni can get _more_ annoyed with me.”

 

Agron still looks awful, but the corners of his mouth twitch in the barest of smiles.

 

In the hallway he texts Crixus.

 

_need to help Agron break up with big douchebag C, could use ur assistance_

 

Crixus texts back:

 

_took u fucking long enough._

 

Spartacus texts him back:

 

_the fuck u know about it?_

 

Crixus responds,

 

_theres been suspicions, Barca told me, we gonna light em up Gnaus or Ashur style?_

 

Spartacus doesn’t even pretend to not understand what he’s talking about and texts,

 

_dont kill anyone until i get there_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the lovely comments and kudos!


	6. motivations are dangerous things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

“Okay, first things first,” Spartacus says, unconsciously tapping his fingers against the steering wheel in a rhythmic pattern, a nervous habit he often did while thinking. It was just past eleven in the morning, they were waiting at a red light, and he had _a lot_ to think about.

 

“ _You_ are going to the doctor,” Spartacus says to Agron, “And _you_ are not going to hit on Melitta,” now directed to Gannicus, in the back seat.

 

He holds up a hand to still the protests. “I know it sucks,” he says to Agron, who’s curled up in the front seat, arms wrapped around his knees, and thinks, _no I don’t, I have no idea at all_. He hasn’t pressed Agron for details about what exactly Caesar did to him. But he can imagine to an extent (and know that his imagination is constantly being outdone by peoples’ capacity for cruelty). He remembers how Pietros was, after. He sees it in Agron and tries _not_ to see it at the same time.

 

“But I can’t have you passing out on me, or walking around with possible internal injuries. Auctus would have my head.” Spartacus finishes, and isn’t sure whether the scathing look he gets in return is one of indignation, or just one of discomfort. From the way Agron’s seated, turned towards the window, Spartacus can dark bruises on the back of his neck, and they form the vague shape of a hand.

 

“What are you going to do?” Gannicus’ voice says from somewhere behind Spartacus, and he sounds half accusing and half mildly interested.

 

“I’m going to go look into Caesar’s options for pursuing an out-of-state education,” Spartacus answers, and smirks at Gannicus in the rear-view mirror.

When they stop Gannicus gets out of the car and walks around to open Agron’s door. If he weren’t feeling ill enough to actually _need_ assistance Agron would be amused at such gentlemanly behavior coming from a guy who looked like the love-child of a frat guy and a pirate.

 

“It will be alright, _go_.” Spartacus says, and makes little shooing gestures with his hands. Agron really doesn’t want to, but he knows he _should_ , so he gets out of the car.

 

The clinic is quiet and a little chilly inside, and has that too-clean smell that reminds Agron of hospitals and sets him on edge. But Melitta’s smile is kind and she leads him back immediately when he tells her his name.

 

“I’ve been expecting you,” she says, showing him into the examination room, and Agron wonders at how Spartacus seems to know people in all places. 

 

He thinks, _why would someone like Spartacus help someone like me?_ as he unbuttons his uniform shirt, and starts to change into the exam gown. Clearly there is more to the senior than just having lots of friends and running the newspaper. He seems to have an endless supply of odd acquaintances who are willing to lend assistance at a moments notice. Literally. He and Spartacus bailed after second period, and Gannicus was waiting by Spartacus’ car by the time they got to the parking lot, not five minutes later. Furthermore, Spartacus seems to genuinely _want_ to help him, like he cares about Agron. It’s overwhelming, but maybe in a good way. He thinks, _maybe I could get used to people caring about me_.

* * *

 

Spartacus is on his way to meet up with Crixus for lunch when he gets a text from Nasir:

 

_crixus is too excited about something, you’re unaccounted for, and agron is missing, what’s up?_

 

But before he can text back, (because while he might be the one always telling his friends to behave and keep their eyes on the road, he totally texts and drives when no one’s around to yell at him) there’s a follow-up message:

 

_oh yeah, and caesar is pissed!!!!!_

 

Spartacus laughs and thinks, _yeah, asshole, you better be miserable_. and answers Nasir, _agron is with me, dont worry, crixus is just happy he gets to punch someone. what did gjc do now?_

* * *

 

Apparently he broke a ton of shit in science lab and then threatened the teacher, as Nasir tells him later, over lunch with Crixus. 

 

“No, seriously, and when the teacher came over to reprimand him, he got all quiet scary,” Nasir says, shaking his head, and Spartacus stops himself from asking why Nasir wasn’t in his _own_ third period class when this happened. It would be pretty hypocritical considering where he _wasn’t_ this morning, and Spartacus doesn’t want to be a nag, especially when there are such real issues to deal with.

 

“Everybody thought he was gonna, like, bite Professor Metellus or something.” Nasir finishes, and then slurps his soda, thoughtfully.

 

“This is some fucked up shit, dude.” Crixus says, and Spartacus couldn’t agree more. He had told Crixus and Nasir the basics of his earlier conversation with Agron and they’d both reacted as expected: Crixus made a face of unmitigated rage and asked Spartacus, in total seriousness, “When’s the funeral?”, and then offered to call his girlfriend, Naevia, because she taught self-defense at her all-girls’ school, and would be completely willing to help “take care of” the “Caesar problem”. Nasir’s rage had been more subdued, partly because Spartacus was only reaffirming what he’d already seen proof of, and partly because Nasir just internalized things more than Crixus did. Actually, Spartacus wasn’t sure that Crixus internalized _anything_.

 

Case in point, Crixus striding away from the table, phone in hand, mumbling something about “Gotta talk to Naevia,”. 

Nasir leans across the table, steals one of Crixus’ fries, and says, “You know why it upsets him so much, when somebody is hurt,” He phrases it as more of a statement than a question, but he answers it anyway, “It’s because they’re all Naevia to him, and the perpetrators are all Ashur.”

 

Spartacus nods, he figured as much. It upsets _him_ because he feels an innate sense of accountability for everyone in his vicinity’s well-being, even when the many factors at play are out of his control. It just didn’t sit right with him, the idea that injustice, that _wrong_ , could be happening and he was supposed to just...let it. But Nasir, well, he was worried about Nasir. He knew that the other boy cared about Agron, that his feelings were not the consequence of some light “crush”, as much as their friends liked to tease him. And he was curious as to how far Nasir was willing to go, not just today, but in the many days that followed. 

 

“What’s it to you?” Spartacus asks, without a hint of flippancy in his voice, and looks at Nasir. "What happens tonight, with Caesar?"

He trusts Nasir enough to understand what he's really asking when he says, "What is Agron's happiness to you?"

 

Nasir looks back at Spartacus, his eyes are dark, and his face is resolute when he says, “It’s everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, this was one big chapter that I decided to split into this one and the one that follows it. So chapters 6 & 7 go together more consecutively than most of the story's chapters. NBD, but if there's any confusion as to where Gannicus and Agron's medical adventure is going, or what going on with Caesar, that's why.
> 
> Anyways, thank you very much for the lovely comments and kudos! You guys are awesome!


	7. the bitter taste of conscience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

Agron emerges from the doctor’s office to find Gannicus sprawled, none-too-gracefully, in a lobby chair, and reading a magazine. He’s mostly upside-down, with his legs thrown over the arm of his chair, and his long blonde hair is brushing the floor. It looks so uncomfortable Agron is actually impressed. Gannicus twists around to look at Agron, grins, and then goes about disentangling himself and getting to his feet.

 

“You all done?” he asks, nodding in the direction of the medical rooms.

 

“Yeah,” Agron says, breathing deeply, and _dear God_ does it feel fucking good to be able to do that again. His chest is bound, and enough parts of him are wrapped to make a mummy jealous, but his body feels _so much_ better than it did before. He thinks it might have something to do with the drugs Melitta gave him before the exam. Earlier he was cold and tense all over, but now he’s sort of warm and fuzzy inside.

 

“They said, er, she said I was concussed, but only a little. So no worries.” Agron says, and smiles brilliantly at Gannicus.

 

Of course the decent part of Gannicus is concerned that Agron seems to count being only a “little” concussed as a good thing, but in all honesty the first thing he thinks is _whoa, dimples_ and then his thoughts go less-than-stellar places for about ten seconds. The decent part wins out when he sees the kid standing in front of him, school shirt barely fastened over his chest binder, and his eyes all sleepy, and Gannicus just feels like a creep. Like Agron is totally adorable and Gannicus is horribly inappropriate and Spartacus needs to stop putting so much trust in him,  _dammit_.

 

But if there’s one thing Spartacus is truly incapable of, it’s giving up on people, Gannicus in particular. He chuckles ruefully to himself and wriggles out of his bright orange surfer hoodie, handing it to Agron.

 

“Here, put this on,” Gannicus says, holding the hoodie out, “this will fit over your wrap better.”

 

Agron looks at the pullover for a moment, curiously, like he’s never seen one before. He blinks, slowly, and Gannicus sighs, bunching up the fabric. “Hands up, sleepyhead,” he says, and helps maneuver the top over Agron’s head. Once Gannicus has got the sleeves sorted he leaves the rest to Agron.

 

“Alrighty, let’s go, shall we?” Gannicus asks, and opens the door, leading Agron out into the parking lot.

Spartacus is waiting by his car, arms crossed, looking quite pleased with himself. Gannicus still doesn’t know what his plan for tonight is, but based on past misadventures, and Spartacus’ flair for innovation, it promises to be epic.

“Where to now, Captain?” Gannicus asks cheekily, leaning over to unlock the door for Agron. He means it in a joking manner, but it’s more true than not. For some reason, whether it was his charisma or intellect or something else entirely, everyone seemed to gravitate to Spartacus. And gravitating towards Spartacus usually led to participating in crazy plans, like the one Gannicus found himself involved in now. Varro and Crixus were just as susceptible as he was, but even Barca got in on the insanity sometimes.

Agron let out a frustrated growl, drawing Gannicus’ attention, as he struggled with the door handle.

 

“This is giving me...difficulties.” Agron laments, looking up, and Gannicus isn’t sure how in the world he fucking missed it, but his pupils are fully blown. 

 

“Wait, stop.” Gannicus says, turning to him, “are you stoned?”

 

Agron makes a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a sob, and shakes his head, “I don’t know. I think, maybe? My hands are very...soft.” and, as if to demonstrate, pulls the sleeves of Gannicus’ oversized hoodie down to hide them, obviously giving up on opening the door.

 

Gannicus thinks, _you’ve got to be fucking kidding me_ , nonplussed, and meets Spartacus’ gaze over the top of the car. “You’ve got yourself a stoned teenager.” he tells Spartacus in mock seriousness.

 

Then adds, as a proud afterthought, “And for once it’s not me!”

 

Spartacus just says “Oh dear,” far too calmly, and starts the car.

 

“But, dude, _dude,_ ” Gannicus says after he’s helped Agron into the backseat, “You have a drugged underage boy! In the back of your car! Like, I just hope you didn’t plan on ever running for office.”

 

“ _Gannicus_ ” Spartacus says in his warning tone of voice, at the same time that Agron says, “Hmmm...seventeen.”

 

Gannicus cranes his neck around his headrest so that he can see Agron’s face, “What’s that?”, he asks.

 

“I’m...seventeen?” says Agron, from where he’s lying on the backseat.

 

“Really? No shit, I thought you were only fifteen. You have a very young look about you.”

 

“Gannicus! Focus!” Spartacus growls, his patience at Gannicus’ frivolity wearing thin.

“Right, sorry,” Gannicus says, his demeanor sobering almost immediately as he turns around in his seat.

“We’ve just got to go home, let him sleep it off, and wait for Barca and Nasir,” Spartacus says authoritatively, but Gannicus knows he’s talking aloud to himself more than anything else.

 

“Oh, _home_ ,” Agron echoes, sitting up a little and rubbing his eyes, “I think.” Agron says, and pauses, looking around, his face is scrunched up to try and block out the light. His pupils are dilated to the point that only a ring of green remains around the black, “I think I need to change my locks.”

 

“Change your locks?” Spartacus repeats, making sure that Agron is with him and not just talking nonsense in his drug-induced haze.

 

“Yeah...Caesar has keys” He says hollowly, clearly drained by his moment of clarity.

 

Spartacus purses his lips and looks at Gannicus like this is all his fault.

 

Gannicus bites down on his childish reply of “What did I doooo?!”, but it’s a very narrow miss. He knows Spartacus’ look isn’t really meant for him, it’s just frustration at the situation in general, and Caesar isn’t here to receive it. But Gannicus still reacts to being the target of said frustration.

 

“I know a guy!” Gannicus says defensively, because he does, he _knows_ people, and this way he can help. Getting some locks changed and giving away his hoodie can’t undo whatever Caesar’s done, but it’s what _he_ can do, so he will.

 

“I’ll call Lugo when we stop,” Gannicus says, to Spartacus more than Agron, cause he’s pretty sure the teen has dozed off in the back. Whatever drugs Melitta gave him, they were clearly the _good_ shit. 

 

“Saxa’s uncle loves me, for some reason. I’m sure he’ll be willing to do it on short notice.” he continues, scrolling through his phone contacts, and thinks, _if I explain the reason, Lugo'd probably do the job for free_.

Hell, Gannicus’ll get Agron three fucking locks if that’s what the kid wants.


	8. tear you apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

Spartacus is just getting off the phone with Mira when Barca’s Toyota pulls in the driveway. What can only be described as “angry” dance music emits from the speakers for a minute before Barca turns the engine off. Nasir is sitting shotgun and Caesar is nowhere to be seen. Spartacus curses under his breath.

 

“So, were you successful?” Spartacus asks, trepidatiously, as he steps off the porch.

 

“Oh, yeah man,” Barca says, nodding, as he unfolds his huge frame from the driver’s side, “very successful.” Nasir comes around the front of the car grinning. His knuckles are red.

 

“What did you do to your hand?” Spartacus asks, but he suspects he already knows the answer. And he definitely does _not_ use his panicked “Dad voice” (that Mira swears comes out whenever someone is bleeding).

 

“Nothing that wasn’t completely deserved and entirely satisfying.” Nasir says with a smirk, but he’s cradling his left hand with a wince, and Spartacus wonders how much of the blood is Caesar’s. He only cares for Nasir’s sake. It’s a little after five and the sun is just starting to go down, the chill of evening creeping in as they stand in the driveway conversing. Suddenly Spartacus hears a loud _THUMP_. He looks from Barca, leaning idly against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, to Nasir, sitting on the step of the porch, hands carefully held out in front of him, so as to not bloody his jeans. Barca seeks to imbue an air of indifference while Nasir attempts the very picture of innocence. Spartacus decides that while the former has perfected the art of an expressionless face, the latter is a terrible liar. And when the _THUMP_ comes again Nasir’s carefree mask slips a little. Spartacus inhales slowly, and resists the urge to laugh hysterically. Something tells him that doing so would not be beneficial in the long run.

 

“Tell me you don’t have Gaius Julius Caesar in the trunk of your car.” Spartacus says.

 

“Um. We don’t?” Nasir answers, and, for the life of him, he truly looks like he’s thinking about it. Deliberating on whether or not there is any living cargo in the trunk of Barca’s car. 

 

“Yes, we definitely _don’t_ have Gaius Julius Caesar in the trunk of our car.” Barca concurs, and Spartacus can fucking _hear_ the smile in his voice.

 

“I thought we agreed we weren’t going to break any laws,” Spartacus reiterates, blankly. After a beat he adds, “until we absolutely had to.”  The trunk has noticeably stilled, and Spartacus thinks, _that motherfucker is listening to our conversation, the nosey bastard_.

 

“Okay, okay,” Barca says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “We were going to play it cool, you know, the way “Spartacus always does”but Caesar didn’t want to come quietly, and then he said some shit that was totally unforgivable, that I’m not repeating, and Nasir went for the face, and it was game over.” Barca talks about what went down as easily as someone might recap a soccer match, with a transparent look of “No Regrets” on his face.  

 

Spartacus does not appreciate the mocking emphasis, but ignores it in favor of a more pressing issue. 

 

“You’re blaming this on _him_?” Spartacus asks incredulously, pointing at Nasir who is still sitting on the stoop, trying, and failing, to push his hair behind his ears without getting blood all over his face. Nasir looked a little deranged, but not overly dangerous. And even at the height of madness, Nasir was still only 5' 8".

 

“Hey now. He went fucking _crazy_. I would have intervened, but it was too awesome.” Barca says earnestly, and his smile is proud.

 

“I’m not blaming. I’m _crediting_.”

 

_Oh my God_ , Spartacus put his hands over his face and groaned. Why did he have to have the most ridiculous friends? They were an impossible mix between highly competent and functionally insane. And the worst part was he could never lecture them on impropriety without someone bringing up the “Gnaus incident”. Which he still considered to be at least 60% accidental (though 110% justified). Spartacus pulls his hands away from his face, returning to the sight of two identical shit-eating grins.

 

“Alright,” Spartacus says, “here’s what we’re gonna do.”

* * *

In the kitchen, Nasir rinsed off his hands and inspected his torn knuckles thoughtfully. He’d never really gotten in a fight before, so the feeling of Caesar’s flesh against his fist felt far different from the punching bag he was used to. It was warm, and softer than he was expecting, and when his fist connected with Caesar’s jaw Caesar’s teeth knocked together beautifully. But what Caesar had _said_ made Nasir shake with rage. He’d not only admitted to hurting Agron, he’d practically fucking gloated about it.

 

Nasir and Barca had confronted Caesar in the parking lot after school, and it had gone about as well as expected. As in, Caesar tried to blow them off, and it escalated into physical violence fairly quickly. When Nasir had brought up the bruises on Agron’s arm, Caesar had sneered and said, dismissively, “You’re acting as if I’ve done something _wrong_? So what if I put my hands on what’s mine?”

 

And Nasir had held himself in check for about five seconds, holding his breath and clenching his fists.

 

But then Barca had relayed the message to Caesar that Spartacus wanted to talk, about his “behavior”, and Caesar had laughed. He’d laughed, like it was hilarious that Spartacus _cared_ about Agron. But, as Caesar put it, Spartacus did always feel the need to defend “whores that couldn’t even fight back”.

 

And then, well, like Barca had said, _game over_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everybody who's been reading, leaving kudos, and commenting: thank you! I adore you! :]


	9. choices and promises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

It’s dusk outside when Agron wakes up, and he’s completely disoriented. He shifts, trying to shake off the fog he feels, and everything aches. There’s a considerable _blank_ in his mind, as he looks around the room, and he can’t seem to remember how he got here, on this overstuffed couch, ensconced in a cocoon of blankets. The last thing he remembers is listening to Spartacus and Gannicus talk in the car in front of him and then...nothing. He just drifted off in the backseat, and resurfaced here.

 

 “Spartacus wanted to keep an eye on you while you were sleeping,” a voice says, and Agron startles, his heart thudding painfully as his body overreacts to what his mind perceives to be a sudden intrusion.

 

“I didn’t mean to alarm you,” Nasir says apologetically, crouching down so that he’s eye-level with Agron, and smiling softly. There’s an expression on Nasir’s face that Agron can’t identify beyond it being _fond_. 

 

Agron is awfully tempted to smile back, but the horror of Saturday night is still raw, and it acts as a buffer, dampening his responses, so all he manages is a shrug, and says, “No harm done,” which isn’t strictly true, but his heart-rate is calming down and his head is clearing, and lying about his own well-being is a deeply-ingrained habit that he’ll probably never break.

 

Nasir smiles again, brighter this time, and says, as way of explanation, “Not to be creepy or anything, watching you sleep, but apparently Melitta loaded you up on sedatives, and Spartacus didn’t think you should be on your own until they wore off.”

 

Agron nods in understanding as he pushes himself into a sitting position, _that_ he did remember. He had tried, and failed, to focus on anything but the huge syringe as she’d prepared the injection. He then remembers the dull feeling of the suture needle in his skin as she stitched up a gash on the inside of his thigh, and shudders. As nice as Melitta was, the visit wasn’t pleasant, and Agron is thankful that he was pretty out of it for the later, more invasive, parts. Even still, there are many things he wishes to forget.

 

Nasir perches on the opposite end of the sofa, eyeing him curiously. He seems to be debating with himself about something. And, making up his mind, he leans over the mountain of blankets (and Spartacus might have gone a little overboard on the mother-hen thing there), taking Agron’s hand in his own. 

 

“I’m not very good at this, this _feelings_ , thing,” he says, “but I want you to know that we’re all here for you. And after tonight, whatever happens, I’m not going anywhere.”

 

He brushes his thumb over the back of Agron’s calloused hand and Agron thinks back to the first time Caesar kissed him, and how naive he’d been, how _stupid._ He furrows his brow, perplexed, considering Nasir’s intentions before speaking, “You’re not disgusted with me?”

 

Nasir looks at him for a moment, thoughtfully, but he doesn’t pull his hand away. “That’s the last way I could feel about you.” Nasir says, seriously, before biting his lip nervously, looking like he is afraid he’d said too much.

 

Agron is taken aback by the confession, and confused. All he can think is _everybody knows_. Spartacus and Gannicus and Nasir, they all knew, more or less, what Caesar had done to him. They knew, and they were on _Agron’s_ side. The amount of kindness and care he was being shone bewildered him. Growing up, he was constantly told he was _unwanted_ (which wasn’t true, his parents had died, they hadn’t _wanted_ to give him and Duro away). And then Caesar had called him ‘whore’ and, occasionally, ‘slut’, which didn’t even make sense, because Caesar _knew_ he’d been his first. But he’d lived with contradictions and lies for so long, it was hard to remember that he’d been someone lovable once. Sometimes he felt like Duro had been gravely wronged. Not because he’d lost his life, not exactly. But because he’d _given_ his life for _Agron’s_ , and all Agron got in exchange was this miserable existence. Agron hears Nasir’s words and thinks, _I want to be lovable again_.

 

“Thank you, Nasir.” Agron says quietly, looking down at their clasped hands, “I would like it, if you stayed.”

Nasir grins, lightening the somber mood a bit, and says, “Oh no, you might never get rid of me now.”  Moving a little closer to Agron’s end of the couch, he says, “I can’t make any promises for Spartacus and the rest, either. Once they adopt you, well, it’s kind of family for life.”

“Hmm...” Agron considers it for a moment, having a family again, and says, “I think I could deal with that.”

“Would you like to meet the rest of them? The family?” Nasir asks, gesturing towards the backyard with his free hand, the one not holding Agron’s own, the one that's currently covered in an excess of band-aids.

Agron hesitates for a second, but instead of withdrawing he shifts forward a little, and lays his head on the back of the couch near Nasir’s shoulder. “Could we just, maybe we could stay here for a little while longer?” he asks, and searches Nasir’s face for judgment, as if expecting to be rebuked.

 

Instead, Nasir looks at him like he gave the right answer to a question Nasir never asked.

 

“Of course,” Nasir says, and he mirrors Agron in laying his head against the back of the couch, leaning subtly closer than he was before, “Staying here a while longer would be wonderful.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everybody who's been reading, leaving kudos, and commenting: thank you! I adore you! :]


	10. my sense of justice brings all the boys to the yard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

Caesar was not having the best day ever. And it wasn’t just the usual, late-to-class, spilled-coffee on yourself, type of normal shitty day either. No, it was like...like he hadn’t spoken to, or seen, his boyfriend since Saturday night, and his 140 texts (and fifty phone calls) had gone unanswered, and he’d spent every second since leaving Agron’s apartment swinging wildly between, _oh god, I crossed a line this time, he’s never coming back_ , to _he made me so angry, he fucking deserved it, I refuse to be remorseful._ This was the longest the brat had ever stayed mad at him and, frankly, he didn’t know how to handle it. He’d already been in a dark mood _before_ that mental sophomore attacked him. And now, after hours of being locked in a giant footballer’s trunk, he found himself face to face with the fucking _Brotherhood_.

 

“Rise and shine, dipshit!” Crixus practically cheers, bodily lifting Caesar out of the trunk of Barca’s car, and dumping him on the grass. Actually, it was less like a passive “drop” and more like an active “touchdown”.

 

“Oof!” Caesar exclaims, his breath rushing out as his knees hit the ground. He surveys his surroundings, trying to get his bearings. There’s a porch behind where Spartacus and Crixus are standing, and it’s occupied by several people. A few are from school, and a couple he’s never seen before, but they’re all looking at him curiously. He feels put on display, and he doesn’t like it. And if the look of vindictive rage on Crixus’ face is any indication of the evening’s agenda, well, it almost makes him wish they’d left him in the trunk. 

 

“Do you know what’s about to happen, Caesar?” Spartacus asks, eying the dried blood blood on Caesar’s face and nodding to himself, looking pleased. Nasir had definitely come out the victor in his and Caesar’s earlier fray. 

 

Caesar shrugs, doing his best to look unconcerned, and says, “You’re all going to get arrested, end up with permanent records, and never make it into the college of your choice?”

 

Crixus actually laughs, a slightly mad, barking sound, and says, “Guess again, smart ass.”

 

Caesar opens his mouth to retort but Spartacus beats him to it.

 

“What’s your excuse?”

 

“What do you mean?” Caesar says, eyes narrowing. He, generally, wasn’t one to give excuses. He's Gaius Julius Caesar, he doesn’t _need_ excuses.

 

“Your excuse,” Spartacus repeats, “for abusing your boyfriend. Don’t cowards usually have one?”

 

“Oh.” Caesar says, and breaths out a laugh, _was this whole thing really just about Agron?_ He thinks, _that seems a bit ridiculous_.

 

“So is that what the bitch is--” Caesar’s denials are cut off with an abrupt punch to the lower jaw, causing him to bite his own tongue.

 

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” Caesar swore, tasting blood. Spartacus had punched in the exact location that Nasir had hit him earlier, and it was more than a little tender.

 

“I suggest you don’t try to lie to me again. Your name might intimidate some people in this town, most even, but I am not among them. I don’t care who you are, I just care what you’ve done. And I insist that you answer for the pain you’ve caused.”

 

Caesar laughed again, but this time it sounded shaky and disbelieving, “Insistence at the volition of a fist?” he asked, sardoincally. He almost couldn’t accept that Spartacus had the balls to threaten him, but the iron on his tongue was proof of that.

 

“I’ve found that that way works best, in the past,” Spartacus says matter-of-factly, but there’s a menacing suggestion to his words.

At that, Caesar thinks about Gnaus and Ashur and whatever went down at the Winter Formal last year. He thinks of all the rumours that seem to constantly surround Spartacus and his friends. He stills, and thinks, _maybe I’m in trouble_.

 

“You can’t kill me.” Caesar says, and hopes it comes out more dismissive than imploring, “You’ve got a house full of witnesses! My parents are both lawyers! Are you fucking insane?”

 

Spartacus just looks at Crixus and rolls his eyes.

* * *

Agron leaned against the porch railing and looked out over the yard. Once he’d felt up to meeting the group Nasir had introduced him to nearly everyone, and his head now swam with new names and faces. Some of them were familiar enough, but now with the preface of _friend_. He hummed to himself, content in his safe corner of the deck, and rubbed his hands together to warm them. Agron suspected that Nasir was trying to keep him occupied, so as to distract his mind from less-than-cheerful thoughts, as well as draw his attention from whatever was going on with Spartacus, Crixus, and Caesar at the edge of the yard. He doesn’t mind being distracted though, so he humored Nasir by turning his gaze away when Spartacus’ fist made contact with Caesar’s face.

 

“ _Agron_ ,” someone says, tapping his shoulder, and Agron just about jumps out of his skin.

 

Nasir slides his hand over Agron’s, where his clasps the deck railing, and says, “Saxa,” in a stern voice, turning to address the girl who just accidently defibbed Agron’s heart.

 

Saxa holds a steaming mug out to Agron, looking severe but contrite, and says, “For you.”

Agron takes the drink, albeit a little shakily, and feels heat soak into his chilled hands, “Thanks,” he says, and then, curiously, “how do you know who I am?”

 

Laughing, Saxa says, “Drink is for little boy in Gannicus’ coat, not hard to find.” slightly mockingly.

Agron raises an eyebrow and looks questioningly at Nasir, who just shakes his head. He complies, and sips the drink (which turns out to be delicious hot chocolate) as Saxa wanders off to accost a brunette in a pink dress.

 

“What was that?” Agron asks, genuinely confused, and wondering if it was a diversion on Nasir’s part, somehow.

 

“Oh, that’s just Saxa,” Nasir says, “being Saxa. She’s pretty much like that all the time.”

 

“All the time?” Agron echoes, musing at the abundance of eccentricity in the group.

 

Nasir smiles, and says, “Well, she brought you a drink and insulted you. I’m pretty sure that’s a gesture of friendship where she comes from.”

 

“Yeah?” Agron says with a brief smile of his own, and Nasir sees a flash of those highly-sought-after dimples.

 

“Yeah,” Nasir agrees, and takes Agron's hand, feeling like he's won something, no matter how small.

* * *

Agron watches, breath catching, as Spartacus shoves Caesar to his knees in front of him, as if in presentation. Spartacus, Crixus, and Caesar are all in the yard, a few yards out, on a flat and grassy patch, clearly preparing for a spectacle. Everybody on the porch grows quiet, even Gannicus.

 

“Do you beg for mercy?” Spartacus asks, poised above Caesar, with his knee pressing into Caesar’s back, between his shoulder blades.

 

“ _Yes_ ,” Caesar spits hatefully, “I beg for mercy,”

 

“Good,” Spartacus laughs, and pushes Caesar’s face into the dirt. While Caesar coughs and sputters, Spartacus steps _over_ him and addresses the group.

 

“Friends, family,” he says, “tonight we unite in a common pursuit of vengeance, we seek to assuage wrongs that have been committed, and, by the end of this display, we will be saying good-bye to someone who has broken the basic rules of human decency.”

 

Spartacus points at Caesar where he lies, while speaking, but he looks directly at Agron as he says the final words, and Agron understands. Meeting Spartacus’ gaze, Agron nods, once, certain.

 

Spartacus returns the gesture, solemn and determined, before turning away, breaking the intense stare.

 

“Let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, leaving lovely comments, and kudos! You guys are awesome!
> 
> Also, the title comes from 'The Sandman' by Neil Gaiman, if anyone was curious :]


	11. blood and honor, hear us now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

The fighting begins as soon as Caesar regains his footing. Spartacus brings his fists up on either side of his face, and readies his stance, but Caesar takes the first swing. His body punch misses Spartacus’ lower torso by inches when Spartacus turns at the last second, and Caesar stumbles. Spartacus pivots, breathing out a laugh, and lands a punch to Caesar’s back, causing him to hiss and drop to one knee.

 

“This is how a real man fights, Caesar” Spartacus seethes, circling around to face his opponent. He speaks only loudly enough for Caesar, and Crixus, to hear.

 

“Just two people facing each other, no threats or schemes, this is honest combat.” he says as he blocks Caesar’s jab, and gives one in return, bloodying his nose.

 

Leaning in close, he says with a sneer, “I know it might look unfamiliar to you.”

 

Caesar takes a rasping breath, spitting out blood, before lunging at Spartacus with a cry. He gets a good, possibly accidental, shot to Spartacus’ liver in, with his elbow. Spartacus staggers for a moment before steadying.

 

“Need me to step in, bro?” Crixus asks from his spot on the edge of their unofficial fighting ring.

 

“No, I’m good, thanks Crixus,” Spartacus says, flashing Crixus a quick smile. He knew Crixus meant well, but he also knew that the other senior wanted to pummel something, and wasn’t known to hold back. Spartacus needed Caesar to be able to walk out of here. For the most part at least.

 

“Is that all you got?” Spartacus taunts, getting back into position. “Even Ashur put up a better attempt than that.”

 

Crixus laughs, recalling the memory, and says, “He was still crying like a coward by the time we were finished with him, though.”

 

Caesar huffs, exertion and rage mixing to detrimental affect, and swings wide. His hook is so sloppy it only grazes Spartacus’ shoulder and Spartacus takes the opening, sliding under Caesar’s arm and delivering a crippling kick to the back of Caesar’s shin.

 

Caesar curses and Spartacus rolls his neck, pausing to catch his breath. It’s more out a desire to fuck with his opponent than out of necessity, and Crixus laughs again, approving of Spartacus’ antagonistic strategy.

 

“Then again,” Spartacus says, picking up the conversation smoothly, “Ashur was _just_ a sick fuck.”

 

He sends a glancing blow to Caesar’s temple, whipping his head sharply to the side. It’s a minor assault, but it agitates his previous Nasir-induced injuries, and Caesar lets out a whimper as he falters.

“Whereas you, _you_ are a sick fuck _and_ a baby-beater,” Spartacus says, before pausing as if in thought. 

After a moment he asks, faux-innocently, “Does that make you _twice_ as pathetic, Caesar?”

 

The answer of Caesar’s provoked misstep and warm blood on Spartacus’ knuckles is, yes, _yes it does_.

* * *

It seems almost too surreal, drinking hot chocolate and watching his ex-boyfriend get the shit kicked out of him, and Agron can’t tear his eyes away from the sight of Spartacus and Caesar entangled in their match. While Spartacus clearly has the upper hand he doesn’t exploit it, like Caesar would have. He lets the fight go on, knocking Caesar down or back whenever he manages to gain any momentum, and drawing it out like a ritual, or a rite. Which Agron supposed, in some ways, it was. It wasn’t entirely discernible, from the porch, what words were being exchanged between the two, but whatever they were, they were having a visible affect on Caesar. 

 

An audible _CRACK!_ rings out through the yard and Agron gasps as Caesar falls to his knees. Blood oozes between Caesar’s fingers when he covers his face, trying to stem the flow from his obviously broken nose. But Agron doesn’t see the two seniors fighting in the grass, and he doesn’t see the friendly acquaintances he is currently surrounded by. He just sees blood, _blood_ , sluggish and hot and coming from _himself_. Agron shakes his head, digs his fingernails into the porch railing, and tries to stay in the present.

 

“It’s okay,” Nasir says, softly, squeezing the hand doesn’t have a wooden rail in a death grip. The look Agron gives him in response must be distressed enough to cause concern, because Nasir elaborates, consolingly, “we could go back inside, if you’d like.”

 

Agron blinks, and steels his resolve, before shaking his head, “No, that’s okay.” he says,  “this is something I need to see through.”

 

He tries to smile reassuringly at Nasir, but it comes out a bit more like an uncertain grimace, and says, “Besides, the fight seems just about over.”

 

Caesar was on the ground, again, and didn’t appear to be getting up anytime soon. _He can’t hurt me_ , Agron thinks, almost scandalously. _He’s never going to hurt me again_ , he thinks, and rolls the thought around in his head, wishing it didn’t feel so unbelievable.

 

His musings are interrupted by none other than Gannicus, who leans in with a grin that is both inappropriate and expected, and proclaims, loudly, “Parties winding down, fledglings, you ready to send this demon back to hell?”

 

Nasir pinches the bridge of his nose like he just _can’t even_ with Gannicus sometimes, and bemoans, exasperatedly, “A. you sound far too cheerful for the surroundings and circumstances. It’s a reckoning, not a Quinceanera. B. fledglings, really? I’m only five years younger than you _Gannicus_. This whole ‘everyone’s an infant until they’re twenty-one’ thing is getting old.” he winces, and then says, with a smirk, “Pardon the pun.”

Gannicus just puts his hands on his hips and harrumphs, still grinning, widely. “Hey now, Mr. Nasir My-last-name-is-all-vowels-cause-Arabic-don’t-give-a-fuck, members of the Brotherhood must be this tall to sass,” he says, waving his hand somewhere above Nasir’s head, “also, you’re not even my favorite fledgling, so there.”

 

With that he sidles closer to Agron and puts his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders, conspicuously, like some cheesy guy with a date at the movies. But for all of Gannicus’ put-on audacity, he actually watches Agron closely, making sure he’s not uncomfortable with Gannicus’ proximity. Agron surprises him, pleasantly, by relaxing enough to unconsciously lean into Gannicus’ side. Agron has been wearing Gannicus’ hoodie long enough to smell faintly of cloves and surfboard wax, and when his hair brushes Gannicus’ shoulder, Gannicus is tempted to lean over and take a whiff. _Don’t be creepy, Gannicus_ , he thinks to himself. He resists the urge to be creepy, just barely, and instead shoots a victorious smile, with an exaggerated wink, at Nasir. Nasir who, at the moment, looks like he’s torn between laughing and scowling at Gannicus’ antics. For the record, that’s pretty much the same reaction that Spartacus has to _all_ of Gannicus’ antics.

 

Raising his other hand, Gannicus gestures dramatically to the stairs leading down into the backyard. 

 

“Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everybody who's been reading, kudoing, or leaving comments! You guys are the best :]
> 
> Also, a special thank you to http://twitch-the-snitch.tumblr.com/ for giving me my first rec! Woo! :)


	12. you remind me of a heart I once had

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.

Mira is chatting with Spartacus and Crixus, casually, like Caesar isn’t sprawled, ungracefully, in the grass at their feet, his fifty dollar polo now stained a rusty brown with dried blood. She turns to face the trio when they approach, waving an important looking file folder and smiling.

 

“This is for you,” Mira says, handing the folder to Agron, “consider it a belated birthday present,” she says with a wink.

 

Agron takes the thick folder, thinking, _Mira knows when my birthday is?_ , which is a fairly extraneous thing to focus on, considering, but Mira co-operates the school newspaper with Spartacus (which pretty much translates to, running the school newspaper _for_ Spartacus, sometimes) so she probably knows just about everything.

 

Said postulation of Mira’s omniscience is confirmed when Agron flips through the file. It’s a school application, that much is obvious, but further more, it’s a military school application, and it’s filled out with Caesar’s personal information.

 

“All he has to do is sign,” Mira continues, as if she and Agron had been conversing, “and he’s a thousand miles away, for at least four years.”

 

Agron meets Mira’s gaze over the pile of official documents in his hands, and says, slightly awed, “You are amazing,”

 

Mira blushes, “It was nothing, really. I barely had to pull any strings at all!” 

 

She motions to the disgruntled pile on the ground, formerly known as Gaius Julius Caesar, and says, “Between Caesar’s grades, and his family’s connections, well, Aquinas Academy was only _too_ happy to accept him.”

 

“Don’t I have a say in this?” Caesar grumbles, pushing himself to his knees, wavering slightly, one hand still pressed to his nose.

 

Crixus puts a firm hand on his shoulder, halting Caesar’s assent. “Your best possible outcome involves you sitting fucking quietly and not talking out of turn, you got that?”, he says, leaning over Caesar menacingly.

 

Caesar gives Crixus an indignant look and receives a flick to the eye in response.

 

“It’s a mid-semester transfer,” Mira says, talking over Caesar’s bullshit and Crixus’ threats, “they were thrilled to make an exception.”

 

“Really, he’ll just be... _gone_? For good?” Agron asks Mira, needing to hear it again.

 

“For the end of high school, and then college after.” Mira confirms with a nod, and then shrugs, “technically, he’ll be allowed to come home on breaks, but I think we’ve all made it clear what kind of welcome he can expect, if he were to set foot in town again.”

Mira smiles sardonically at Caesar while Crixus, Gannicus, Spartacus, and Nasir simply glower. Caesar glares at Agron and Agron glares right back.

 

“Your future or your life, Julius,” Agron says, “What’s a small enough price to pay?” and he laughs, a simultaneously vindicated and terribly broken sound.

Gannicus and Nasir exchange worried looks behind Agron’s back, and everything stills for a moment as Caesar looks at Agron like he’s seeing him truly, for perhaps the first time, before he says, “Fine, I’ll go.” 

 

Nasir exhales tensely and slowly unfurls his fingers from the fists they were curling into. Caesar begrudgingly takes the pen from Spartacus and signs his name, before throwing it down and looking expectantly at Agron, silently challenging. 

 

“Sweet, I’ll get these faxed right away,” Mira says, compiling the papers and ignoring Caesar’s posturing. Folder tucked under her arm, she brushes past the group and heads towards the house with a little wave.

Turning away from Caesar’s gaze, Agron steps back abruptly, almost colliding with Gannicus.

 

“Whoa, easy,” says Gannicus, catching Agron around the waist before he can tumble over. Steadying Agron on his feet, Gannicus grins, “We almost had ourselves a handsome, flaxen-haired pile-up there!”

 

“Sorry about that,” Agron says, staring at his feet like they’re betrayed him, “too much adrenaline, I guess?” Gannicus can feel Agron’s hands shake from where they grasp Gannicus’ forearm, and there’s white teeth indents on his lower lip, but he looks unbearably relieved.

 

“Hey, we won, you know?” Gannicus says, reassuringly, and thinks, _it’s all over now_. He thinks, _you helped do a good thing Gannicus, you fucking rock!_ More often than not, Gannicus’ inner monologue acts as his own personal cheerleader. But what he says aloud is,“Why don’t you and Nasir go back to the house and chill out? You know, pop popcorn, raid Spartacus’ artsy movie collection, make pillow forts, whatever it is you kids do these days.” and grins, affectionately teasing.

 

Agron returns Gannicus’ grin as Nasir laughs, “You’re not that old!” from somewhere behind him. 

 

“Alright,” Agron concedes. And then pauses, and asks, “What...what’s going to happen next?” gesturing to Caesar.

 

“Crixus and I are gonna ‘take out the trash’, so to speak,” Gannicus says with a wink, and Crixus looked a little too pumped at that statement.

“Don’t worry about it,” Crixus chimes in, “we’ve done this before.”

 

When that addition earns Spartacus a few pointed looks he rubs the back of his neck, slightly chagrined, and says, “That...that sounds worse when you say it out loud, Crixus.”

 

Crixus gives a response that amounts to “eh”, and drags Caesar to his feet, muttering something about “putting it on my resume” and “Naevia would be proud”.

 

Spartacus tosses his keys to Gannicus and says, “Don’t let him bleed all over my seats, will you?” pointing first to Caesar, and then nodding at Crixus, “and keep an eye on him. Let’s just say, if anyone ends up in a ditch, it better be an accident.”

 

Crixus makes an innocent, “ _Who me_?” face at Spartacus’ implication, but Spartacus knows him better than that.

 

Gannicus says, very solemnly, “I’ll do my best,” but Spartacus hears no promises being made. He then salutes Spartacus before skipping after Crixus, following him to the car.

 

“Ignore them, they’re a terrible influence,” Spartacus tells Agron and Nasir in a stage whisper.

 

“I heard that!” Gannicus shouts over his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, since this story is coming to a close soon, I'd like to know anyone's thoughts or feelings on me writing more works in this 'verse? Another story? One-shots? Or possibly a sequel? :D Thanks!


	13. today is but a rumour, that we'll laugh at in a year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sparty Kink Meme] Prompt: Agron/Nasir- modern au where one of them has a controlling boyfriend and the other wants to save him.
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments :] I'm sorry for taking so long to finish this fic :o This is the last chapter of the story, but there will be an epilogue! :D

The party starts to dissipate after Crixus and Gannicus take off, Caesar unceremoniously shoved into the backseat. The plan is to stop, briefly, by Caesar's house to pack him a bag and have him leave his parents a note, and then drop him off at the airport. Crixus and Gannicus assure Agron there'll have no issues getting Caesar to board the first flight out, and the two share a conspiratorial look, smirking. Agron doesn't press for details but feels comforted all the same as he watches them drive away.

 

"You guys do this sort of thing often?" Agron asks as he and Nasir climb the back-porch steps. The whole day feels so surreal, like he can't believe that the conversation he had with Spartacus in Western Civilization actually happened this morning, everything seems to be moving so fast. He realizes his hands are shaking so he hides them in the pockets of Gannicus' cozy hoodie. He feels like he's just witnessed a car-crash but for once he wasn't the one hit.

 

Nasir pauses for a moment, pondering the extent of the truth he can share without scaring Agron off. No one ever got what they wanted by being completely honest, and Nasir wants to be friends with Agron. Or, well,  _more_ than friends, but he doesn't want to dash all hope by overwhelming Agron with confessions of his and Spartacus and co.'s past shenanigans.

 

"Only when there's a situation that needs handling," Nasir says enigmatically, and then kicks himself for sounding like a 60's mob boss.

 

"Crixus and Gannicus have never killed anybody, if that's what you're wondering," he clarifies, "They talk a big game, and they enjoy the rumors a little too much, but Gnaeus really did transfer schools,"  _Yeah_ , Nasir mentally adds, _to attend serious physical therapy_.

 

"I have," Agron says, and it sounds innocuous until Nasir fully processes the words.

 

Agron seems a little shocked at his own confession, but continues, explaining, "My brother, I'm the reason he's dead." He doesn't mention that he killed two of the men responsible in self-defense (or at least that's what the police officer told him when he awoke in the hospital) but he'll never feel their deaths, never _own_ their deaths, the way he owns his brother's. Those actions were not his own, acted in response to devastation and grief and fear, he barely remembers them. His early teens years, in general, were a blur of repressed memories and suffocated self-preservation; he only now feels like he's beginning to breathe.

  

Deadly conviction, and self-contempt, flickers behind Agron's eyes belaying that hidden strength of character that made Nasir fall so hard for Agron in the first place. "Your secret is safe with me," Nasir says, and then gestures out to the yard, and the casually dispersing crowd, "And you're safe with us, for as long as you want us."

 

It feels like a depth of soul that shouldn't be shared on someone's back-porch. Like the kind of secrets that shouldn't be let out into the night air. But then again, Nasir thinks, what better place to share secrets? If Agron wants to share such an important part of himself then who is Nasir to refuse such trust?

 

Agron levels Nasir with a look of utter severity. He looks devastating, and beautiful, when he says, "And what if I want for an impossibly long time?"

 

"Well," Nasir says with a smile, "Then we're not going anywhere."

 

* * *

 

"So, Spartacus might have mentioned that you have a crush on me that's roughly the size of Texas," Agron says, later, after they've unironically indulged Gannicus' suggestion and built a pillow fort. Agron is lying on his back staring up at the sky-lights in Spartacus' living room ceiling. He can hear the soft murmur of laughter from the kitchen, Belesa and Saxa most likely, but besides that the house is quiet, peaceful.

 

"That _bitch_ ," Nasir says fervently, twisting in his sleeping bag to face Agron, "He takes his 'embarrassing!big brother' position very seriously," he says, a tad murderously.

 

"No, no it's okay," Agron says placatingly and Nasir holds his breath, "No, it's just, like, surprising, that's all." He smiles and Nasir relaxes a minute fraction, allows himself to hope for incredible things.

 

"Surprising," Nasir says, narrowing his eyes and thinking over the past few months, the past few months, and the past few _hours_ , where he (and he can totally admit this to himself) didn't do a spectacularly subtle job of hiding his less-than-platonic interest in the Junior, " _How?_ "

 

Nasir gestures towards Agron all-encompassingly in a " _Have you seen **you**?_ " kind of way, and then, realizing that that might not be the thorough, helpful explanation to Agron that it is to Nasir, says, "You're brilliant at tennis, you're a total dork, but like, in an adorable way, and you're adorable in a hot way, and you're smart. What part of all that is it surprising to find attractive?"

 

He watches Agron's face as his words sink in and feels like he's said too much. He always says too much.

 

"I was just surprised that someone as cool as you were interested in me, like that," Agron says with a shrug, and his smile is timid.

 

"You think I'm _cool_?" Nasir exclaims, both flattered and incredulous (and incredibly _uncool_ , if you were to ask him), and Agron's smile grows warmer.

 

"Well, yeah." he says, and it sounds like ' _duh_ '.

 

Nasir face-palms into his pillow and makes a sound like an out-smarted Sphinx. Coming up for air (and the remains of his decorum) he says, "Would you like to go on a date with me? Like a proper, non-vengeance related date? Pietros told me you like snow cones."

 

Agron raises an eyebrow at that but doesn't comment, only smirks. 

 

"God, I'm such a creeper," Nasir says, and Agron laughs. 

 

"No, you're not," Agron says reassuringly, "Caesar was a creeper. You're like an 80's romantic comedy version of a creeper. You know, like how they're non-violent and handsome, and the protagonist is still probably going to go to the dance with them at the end."

 

"I think that's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me," Nasir says with a grin.

 

Agron grins back and says, "Yes Nasir, I will go to the hypothetical dance with you."

 

 _Actually,_ Nasir thinks,  _ **that** is the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me._

 

* * *

 

"So, this totally counts as giving back to the community, right?" Gannicus says while climbing out the passenger side of Spartacus' Trickster. He pulls Caesar out of the backseat with more force than's quite necessary and shoves him in the direction of the airport sidewalk.

 

"I wouldn't tell any interviewers about this, if I were you," Crixus says, walking around the car and unlocking the trunk, "Oh yes Dean Cicero, I volunteer at a retirement center once a month, baby-sit my sister's kids every other weekend, and, oh yeah, literally ran a guy out of town once, for great justice."

 

"Fuck you!" Gannicus says, laughing at Crixus' impression of him.

 

"I'm still here you know," Caesar says petulantly, wincing when Crixus shoves his hastily-packed duffle bag into his arms, and continuing to sulk at his former schoolmates.

 

"Uh yeah," Gannicus says, handing Caesar his plane ticket (courtesy of the ever lovely-and-powerful Mira) and pointing him towards the correct terminal, "and I still hate you."

 

"Good luck at military school, douche-canoe!" Gannicus calls at Caesar's back, and receives the California Salute over Caesar's shoulder for his troubles.  

 

"And don't even think of trying to get suspended or we'll kill you!" Crixus adds cheerfully, and Caesar walks quicker.

 

" _Damn_ ," Gannicus says, impressed, "That's one hell of a send-off, Crixus,"

 

Crixus grins, "One last promise, for the road," he says with a shrug, "I won't be able to threaten him face-to-face for at least six months, got to make sure he remembers he ought to fear for his life."

 

Gannicus nods agreeably, like  _good point_ , and then says, "Hey," emphatically, as if it just occurred to him, "I'm getting pretty good at this 'being a decent person' thing, aren't I?"

 

"Yes Gannicus," Crixus says, so sincerely that Gannicus can not detect an ounce of mockery in his voice, "we're very proud."

 

Gannicus just looks at his friend and beams.

 


End file.
